


What I Want from You

by fencer_x



Category: Sekai-ichi Hatsukoi
Genre: M/M, POV Alternating, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 15:17:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13437552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fencer_x/pseuds/fencer_x
Summary: The love between Takano Masamune and Onodera Ritsu, in 11 verses.





	What I Want from You

**Author's Note:**

> This is a "songfic" I suppose you could say—but only in that every (veeeeery loosely defined) drabble is built around a theme presented in a line from the song _Whatya Want From Me_ , by Adam Lambert.

_Hey, slow it down. Whataya want from me?  
Whataya want from me?_

"Ta— _Takano-san!_ " Ritsu hissed, voice choked with pleasure he didn't want known, and his fingers gripped Takano's shoulder even tighter, knuckles going white.

It was fast, too fast—too much too fast and he couldn't handle the way Takano just _bowled him over_ —if the guy was so serious about _seducing_ and all that, didn't he understand it was a path to be pursued with finesse and patience? That there should be some _middle ground_ between chatting on the elevator and Takano's hand in Ritsu's pants, thumb and pointer fingers curled tight around his cockhead and pulling in short, stilted jerks just enough to bring him fully erect so he could bring Ritsu off properly?

It was too much to _process_ : shoujo manga, Marukawa Shoten, Takano Masamune, Saga-sempai, _"Do you love me?"_ , 1201, _"So it's fine for me to seduce you again, right?"_ and no it fucking _wasn't fine_ , not here and now, not just when Ritsu was getting his life in order. It wasn't fine for him to be flat on his back in Takano-san's apartment, reliving the best and worst moments of those heady few months in high school when all he had to worry about was how he was going to keep his heart from exploding from his chest whenever Saga-sempai touched him, how he was going to keep his voice from cracking whenever he tried to speak around Saga-sempai, how he was going to keep from embarrassing himself in every way possible when it came to Saga-sempai.

Why did it have to be him? Why did he have to be tall (always taller than Ritsu) and confident (where had it come from? And could Ritsu please have some?) and just as frustratingly handsome as back then, attractive in a way Ritsu would never understand (wasn't he supposed to like _small_ and _slender_ and _dainty_?), why did he have to remember exactly how to undo Ritsu with a glance, a touch, a kiss?

Time, oh what he'd give for _time_ —it was too much to handle all at once, and Takano-san—Saga-sempai—very obviously was not the patient type, not the type to engage in foreplay (not that Ritsu had ever needed _seducing_ before)—so he would have to make time on his own.

He would have to seek it in the late evenings when they huddled in the corner by the doors on the train together, find the odd minute or so to come to grips when Takano-san napped with a magazine covering his face just at the end of a cycle. He would have to take a breath, slow everything, and let it wash over him, flow around him and fill him up gently and carefully until he could process that he was getting a second chance, a do-over, a new beginning as Onodera—not Oda—to learn of Takano—not Saga—and play the game all over again.

Takano-san licked the seam of his lips, begging entrance, but Ritsu kept them stubbornly pursed, eyes clenched shut in frustration. Too much, too fast, _too soon_.

* * *

_Yeah, I'm afraid. Whataya want from me?  
Whataya want from me?_

He was shivering—shaking with nerves and frustration and embarrassment and adrenaline all with an underlying current of _fear_. He let his arms grip tighter, pulling his knees closer and burying his face in the small space made by his bent body, relishing the calm darkness afforded him in this moment of uncertainty and anxiety while his heartbeat echoed in his ears, still racing on the heels of Takano-san's touch.

It was cold and wet from the sudden storm, but he couldn't bring himself to move, not even to clean himself up, despite how he wanted to scrub his hands until they were raw and red, enough to make him forget how he'd curled his fingers around Takano-san's stiff, warm cock, slicking it over with sweat and fluid and semen and swift, sharp tugs he'd unconsciously tried to time with Takano-san's own attentions to Ritsu's cock.

It wasn't as if he'd wanted it, it was just…it had happened. And when Takano-san had grabbed his wrist and guided his hand there, some part of him had felt like _well fuck it_ and he couldn't help it when his fingers automatically curled _just right_ , in awe at the power he now held to completely undo Takano-san the way he always seemed to undo Ritsu.

 _Fuck_ , why did this have to be so confusing and overwhelming and yeah, a little scary? Why couldn't Takano-san just be quiet and gentle and unassuming like before? Maybe he could've fallen in love with that person again, if it had been slow and languid and at-his-own-pace rather than this frenzied series of meetings in genkans and stolen kisses in corners of the editing room where people couldn't see them. Maybe his chest wouldn't seize up with worry whenever Takano-san touched him, benign as it might be, not just because he was scared that someone might see, might interpret the action as more than it was—but because he knew that with time, Takano-san's touches would wear him down until he couldn't live without the heat they drew up in him, the long-lost sensation of Takano-san's fingers stroking through his hair, broad palm cupping his cheek, heated breath against his lips and neck and chest.

"Better the devil you know than the devil you don't" did nothing to negate the fact that _both were devils_ and therefore choices to be feared.

* * *

_There might have been a time_  
When I would give myself away.  
Oh once upon a time I didn't give a damn. 

Ritsu held his breath, inhaling and exhaling with long intervals, as slowly and shallowly as possible, because if he moved an inch, if he shifted on the bed to move closer or get more comfortable, Saga-sempai would wake, grumble something about it being too hot with the sunlight streaming down on his face, and turn over, or just get up and take a shower perhaps, thereby depriving Ritsu of this prime moment to lie here in the fading afternoon sun, watching Saga-sempai doze—which was just _not good_.

Okay, maybe the shower was pretty good, because Saga-sempai had of late been inviting Ritsu to join him, and even though the stall was narrow and cramped and it kind of hurt more than felt good because the angle was all wrong and any soap or lubricant just washed away when Saga-sempai took advantage of the fact that there was no clean-up to worry about…he embraced the invitation with enthusiasm (shaded underneath a bright blush, which he was starting to realize would never go away in his sempai's presence), because it meant that—at least for now—he still served a purpose and could still be near Saga-sempai, even if it was just in a physical sense.

Ritsu wasn't stupid, you know. He was a little lovestruck, infatuated sure—but he wasn't blind to the fact that heretofore straight (as far as Ritsu knew) Saga Masamune had no reason to suddenly just trip and fall head over heels in love with a scrawny first year stalker who couldn't even properly articulate just what he liked about his sempai. So he didn't delude himself into thinking that any of what they did was out of _love_ —even though sometimes…he wondered.

Like when Saga-sempai would sit there, dozing lightly with his head on his arms, while Ritsu finished the math problems he'd asked for help with—rather than going off to find a new book to pore over. He probably thought Ritsu didn't notice that he never really slept, still on alert and eyes fluttering open dully now and then and just watching Ritsu's pencil scritch-scritch across the page. Or when they'd lie here together after sex, just letting the time tick by (Saga-sempai never complained, no matter how late Ritsu stayed), sometimes spooned together and Saga-sempai would kiss him softly at the nape of his neck, not to initiate anything, just to lie there and hold him until their heartbeats aligned and Ritsu couldn't tell if the _badump_ rattling through him was his own or Saga-sempai's.

Times like those, a part of him wondered if maybe, perhaps, Saga-sempai really did feel something for him, something more than pity or amusement or curiosity. Or boredom.

He was always a little scared of that possibility: that Saga-sempai might grow bored with him. It wasn't like there was no one else that would be willing to sleep with someone as amazing as him, and of course a girl would be…so much better than Ritsu ever could be (setting aside the matter of his gender, he was hardly as well-versed in bedroom affairs as he suspected a good few girls in their school were, and more so outside of it). So—the moment that Saga-sempai got annoyed with him ( _again_ ) or realized that what they were doing was actually really gross ( _again_ ), he'd brush Ritsu aside without so much as a backwards glance.

That was why he had resolved, in his heart, to love Saga-sempai as much as he could, to do whatever he was asked and make Saga-sempai feel like he needed Ritsu in some way. He would give himself over completely, because what else was there to life without someone to give your everything to?

So it didn't matter if Saga-sempai didn't really love him back, not nearly as deeply as Ritsu loved him; just being able to share moments like this was enough, and the rest would surely come with time if he could just be patient and wait. He was good at waiting, you see.

* * *

_But now, here we are. So whataya want from me?  
Whataya want from me?_

How had they gotten here? In his head, Ritsu logically recalled the moments leading up to his finding himself on his back with Takano-san leaning over him, but his mind was fuzzy on the details of what they'd been arguing about even, and all he remembered just now, clearly, was that Takano-san kept repeating _love love love_ and it was really getting annoying because _geez_ didn't he understand that you weren't supposed to say stuff like that just whenever you felt like it? That it lost its meaning if you just threw it around whenever?

His stomach churned sickeningly, and Ritsu couldn't tell if it was from the emotion of the situation or the four (five?) beers he'd downed in quick succession under Takano-san's watchful eye. And where did he get off being sober while Ritsu was here drunk and torn up inside and flushing from the booze and the way Takano-san was touching him?

Takano-san's mouth was moving, and now he was asking something, looking pained and torn and a lot like how Ritsu _felt_ right now—and he wondered if he wasn't making the same face himself, perhaps. Ritsu's mind only picked up some of the words— _love_... _need_... _accept me?_ —and he tried to arrange them into some sensical pattern, but all that came out in the end was _stop saying_ love _so much_.

Takano-san's brows rose, and Ritsu realized he must have voiced the complaint, for he then leaned forward, braced across Ritsu with one hand on either side of his head, challenging, "Then _you_ say it some." Ritsu just shook his head violently and shut his eyes, feeling like a child—but really, he didn't trust his voice anymore, seeing as it liked to spit out his thoughts of its own accord just now.

Takano-san had leaned back to settle on his knees, and Ritsu watched through half-lidded eyes as he calmly removed his jacket, tossing it to the side where it settled somewhere in the corner with a soft _fwump_ , and unhooked his belt—and it was here Ritsu scrambled up onto his elbow, watching warily but not making a sound.

They were...gonna fuck now, right? Unless he was just gonna jerk himself off, maybe? Ritsu didn't know if he was excited or worried at that prospect, to be honest. His heart was beating fast, so—that usually meant one or the other, yeah? And if he was worried or nervous, shouldn't he be kneeing Takano-san in the groin and making a break for the door (crap, where were his pants?) before Takano-san unlatched his be—oh, too late, the belt was off and falling to the floor by the forgotten coat, this time with a loud _clank_. Then, the soft, subtle _zip_ of a fly coming undone—Takano-san's apartment was too quiet and all these noises too loud, Ritsu was realizing—and a greasy _schlick_ as Takano-san worked himself into a firmer erection. Ritsu let his mind wander again here, watching through dull, lidded eyes as if half-asleep.

Takano-san was watching him, too, keeping his gaze on Ritsu the whole time (could he fuck properly blindfolded, then? It made one wonder) with a silent question: permission? Takano-san wasn't going to ask it outright, and Ritsu—even buzzed and only half-coherent as he was—wasn't going to give it, so they were at quite an impasse.

Ritsu swallowed thickly. "…If I say I love you, then will you leave me alone?"

And here Takano-san smiled, white teeth showing and undermining his sincerity. "Of course."

Liar. Now Ritsu was even less inclined to give the guy the pleasure of ever hearing Ritsu admit that of course he loved Takano-san, because Takano-san was Saga-sempai, even if he wasn't really Saga-sempai, and truthfully he was starting to kind of like Takano-san more than Saga-sempai, because Saga-sempai was amazing and beautiful and quiet and profound but Takano-san was loud and abrasive and brash and still beautiful and never missed an opportunity to tell Ritsu he loved him loved him loved him. All Ritsu'd ever wanted really was for Saga-sempai to love him back…right?

Which begged the question of what did Saga-sempai (or Takano-san, same difference) want from _him_?

Takano-san's toothy grin melted into a more sober, serious half-smile, one tinged with a little sadness, a little relief, and Ritsu got the sick feeling that he'd said something out loud again. "Just for you to let me love you."

* * *

_Just don't give up. I'm workin' it out.  
Please don't give in; I won't let you down._

You wish you could write him a letter. You've always been more comfortable with the written word than the spoken, and maybe if you had a pen in your hand or a screen in front of you, you might finally be able to make some sense of all the jumbled up emotions in your head.

You're in love with him. Takano-san.

There. You've said it. Kind of.

You've thought it, sure. You've very nearly cried it in a fit of passion (which _thank god for Mutou-sensei_ ), have let it fly to your lips, just waiting to be poured into his ear, but…you haven't been able to bring yourself to take that last step and truly let _him_ know.

He likes to presume things, too—and that goes a long ways toward keeping your lips sealed of any and all such confessions. More painful than the ache in your chest that he doesn't realize how you never stopped loving him is the thought of him responding to your pitiful confession with a smirk and _I know_.

You don't _want_ him to have figured it out on his own—you want it to be new and bright and something he's grateful for, and while part of you claims that _it will be_ , the darker, more cynical side of you—the side that took root when you gave up on love—reminds you that you're just another conquest and he's never once given you reason to love him back, just pretty words and amazing sex and empty gestures.

But more than you wanted to save that experience for yourself, you're worried you're running out of time—that Takano-san too will eventually grow tired of the chase, tired of being constantly rebuffed no matter how he tries to "seduce" you in that frustratingly smooth way of his. Your pride won't let you voice all of the things you want to tell him at just the times they matter most, and you worry that eventually this will come back to bite you in the worst way, depriving you of this second chance because you were too afraid to take it and too stubborn to admit you wanted it in the first place.

But another part of you reminds gently that he's waited ten years for you, ten years to be able to shower you with a decade's worth of attention and affection and _I love you_ s, even if you hate hearing them, and _despite_ your recalcitrance, he's showing no signs of wearying or stopping. He's waited ten years to be with you again.

He can surely wait a few more months.

* * *

_It messed me up, need a second to breathe._  
Just keep coming around.  
Hey, whataya want from me? 

Ritsu stood there in a daze, just staring blankly at the closed elevator doors, his mind racing around in circles and thoughts flitting about wildly, struggling to process just how drastically his worldview had shifted in the past five minutes.

 _Fuck_ how had he missed it? Weren't you supposed to never forget your first loves? Or was that something he'd read in one of the manga sitting at his desk earlier? And besides that—shouldn't he _remember_ someone like Saga-sempai?

But then—Saga-sempai had always been quiet and withdrawn and had carried himself with a slump to his shoulders, like he was burdened beyond his years, whereas Takano-san pranced around proud as you please, head held high and snapping out orders and barking at his subordinates like some rabid dog. It was hard to believe they could possibly be the same person—but they eyes…those were the same, and when he'd braced himself over Ritsu, straddling him on the couch and asking in his smoke-roughened voice _do you remember this, then?_ fuck yes, of course he remembered that feeling, and he may as well have been back in Saga-sempai's room just then, so real was the sensation.

He squinted his eyes and shook his head, twisting on his heel to head back to the office to gather his things; this was more than a days' work done, and he wanted to just collapse on his bed and sleep until this all seemed nothing more than a bad dream. He would wake up bright and fresh and ready to slug through the day working in a genre he didn't feel suited to at all, and Takano-san would be little more than his annoying but dedicated boss who happened to bear a passing resemblance to a boy Ritsu had had a crush on in high school.

Yes, it must have just been his subconscious playing tricks on him.

Except it probably wasn't.

It probably wasn't, because he was standing here wanting to just curl into a ball in the middle of the hallway and shake until the rest of the world calmed down around him because _this wasn't fair_. It was traumatic enough switching jobs in the middle of the financial year and worse, being transferred to a department he had no talent or interest in—but to have this bombshell dropped on him as well?

It wasn't exaggerating to say that experience had changed his life—for better or worse, it was hard to tell. He'd never been happier than in the quiet moments he'd spent with Saga-sempai, but he'd never been angrier or more frustrated than when he'd been summarily dumped, and in the least elegant way possible—and now all of the emotions associated with that experience were threatening to rise up again and wreak ten years' worth of revenge.

_So it's fine for me to seduce you again, right?_

Fuck that. Where did he get the idea that Ritsu was in any way interested in diving back into the most painful breakup of his life? Didn't he realize that the _reason_ Ritsu was such a prickly, stubborn workaholic now was because of Saga-sempai and his thoughtless actions? Ritsu had been willing to put up with a lot from his sempai, blinded by his feelings and the firm belief that deep down he just needed someone to care enough for him that he felt comfortable opening himself up—but all his silly illusions had been shattered with a thoughtless, derisive snort that spoke volumes.

So no, Saga-sempai. No, Takano-san. Ritsu was in no position to think about a new relationship, let alone rekindling old ones. He just needed to take a moment and collect himself, breathe deeply and remember that people worked with their ex-lovers every day and most of them had no issues with being professional, so why should this be any different?

So what if he had never been able to really move past the shock, had been permanently crippled when it came to opening himself up to others because of stupid Saga-sempai? So what if Takano-san hadn't been kidding about seducing him again? So what if he'd gotten a little embarrassingly hard when Takano-san had pushed him onto his back on the little couch in the breakroom, remembering clearly all the times he'd done so before?

Starting tomorrow, he'd be back on his feet and working to forget this whole embarrassing affair even started. Professionalism was key when it came to dealing with exes. Professionalism and the healing element of time.

Because obviously, things like this got easier to deal with over time…right?

* * *

_Yeah, it's plain to see_  
that baby you're beautiful,  
And there's nothing wrong with you. 

Onodera flinched when Masamune reached forward to press a wayward clump of hair behind his ear, chuffing softly at the reaction. "You're always so jumpy."

Shuffling onto his back, and then his side to face away from Masamune, Onodera grumbled, "Cause you touch me too much."

Instead contenting himself to play with the bits of hair at the base of Onodera's neck, tracing a line from his nape down his spine and dipping under the covers to continue just to the top of his ass before stroking back up and drawing vague symbols on his flesh, Masamune snorted inelegantly. "After all we've done—in my bed, your bed, hotel beds, the office that one time—"

" _Takano-san!_ "

"—you're embarrassed when I just _touch_ you?" He rolled his eyes when Onodera's shoulders just hunched further. "Weird."

" _You_ 're the weird one. We're not going out, we don't even like each other or anything—"

"We do so like each other," Masamune protested matter-of-factly. It was only the biggest unspoken truth between them.

Onodera continued as if he'd said nothing. "—But you keep pressing me to do things like this and… That's just—weird."

Masamune narrowed his eyes, scooting forward a bit until he could feel Onodera's warmth radiating over his bare skin, and pressed his forehead to Onodera's shoulderblade. "I don't think it's weird to want to sleep with the person you love. Especially when they love you back."

"I don't—" Onodera started violently, twisting in place and lifting up into a sitting position, but no more words came out, and he settled for letting his mouth flap open and shut, like a fish. When he'd tired himself out, he cast his gaze aside. "Why do you _do this_ to me?" he groused after a while, voice heavy with emotion.

Masamune didn't know what _this_ was…but felt disinclined to apologize regardless. "I can't help it. It's your fault anyways."

"Wha—How is this _my fault_?!"

Lifting himself up with just his arms, he brought his lips close enough to steal a peck before Onodera toppled out of the bed trying to flee. "You're the one who made me fall in love with you in the first place. Take responsibility."

* * *

_It's me, I'm a freak._  
But thanks for lovin' me,  
Cause you're doing it perfectly. 

Ritsu was…a weird kid, Masamune had decided. He had to be, to stick around after all the horrible things Masamune had said to him in the heat of the moment. Who could possibly stay in love (or infatuated, as it more than likely was) with someone after being told you're gross and annoying? Was he just that masochistic and desperate for Masamune's attentions that he'd take whatever he could get? Maybe.

But then, Masamune was hardly a prize himself, he knew full well.

A messed up family life, parents too busy to see beyond their own damned noses, his best friend a stray cat and the closest thing he'd ever had to a real _lover_ …a scrawny first-year _boy_ head over heels for Masamune for reasons he couldn't comprehend.

Masamune snorted—he certainly wasn't in any position to be judging someone for being weird, nope. Which begged the question of just what Ritsu saw in him. He always blushed and got flustered and lost his ability to speak whenever Masamune brought up the topic of why Ritsu cared for him so much, so somehow even now, weeks since that rainy afternoon when Ritsu'd agreed to come home with him for the first time, he still couldn't figure out what he saw in Masamune.

But his inability to give voice to whatever complicated reasons he might have hidden away didn't seem to impede his ability to really _love_ Masamune. He'd always thought that kind of thing only appeared on television. You were either flirty and giggly like the short-lived flings his classmates seemed to enjoy or at each other's throats like his parents. There was no in between, no beyond where you just lay there and enjoyed each other's presence, holding one another close and grateful for the companionship despite your apparent incompatibility.

Ritsu made him believe that kind of limbo existed, though, and for all that he was goofy and gangly and far too nervous around Masamune, he had these moments were he was just—so much more gentle and giving and warm and soft than he was entitled to be, than Masamune felt he deserved even. The way he'd smile or do something stupidly adorable and set Masamune's heart to beating faster for reasons he couldn't explain—it kind of made him understand better Ritsu's profession that he just couldn't explain why he loved Masamune.

Fine, they could be weird and in love together.

* * *

_There might have been a time_  
When I would let you slip away  
I wouldn't even try  
But I think you could save my life 

Masamune was breathing hard when the elevator doors slid shut, a bolt of relief streaking through him when Onodera failed to board behind him as he'd been seemingly hellbent on doing. He hadn't been quite sure how he'd continue the conversation after delivering his ultimatum, so it was all for the best that Onodera just bump his head and take another car. They could continue their conversation the next day.

Really, he hadn't expected the guy to get so worked up. Masamune thought he'd taken the news remarkably well, all things considered. After all, it wasn't every day you learned that the person you'd spent the last ten years missing with all your being had just showed up on your figurative doorstep, right? He figured he would've been well within his rights to react in a similar shocked manner—but he'd kept his cool and just…accepted it.

Because what other reaction _was_ there to give, really? How could anyone who'd wanted something for this long just turn their nose up to it when so nicely presented the opportunity? What logic was there in not immediately snatching up this chance? Really, Onodera was acting a fool.

Masamune was like a man dying of thirst in the desert, and Onodera was just _sitting_ there, his own personal oasis; how could he _not_ want to reach out and touch? It was bordering on _cruel_.

And hadn't he explained himself enough? Who _cared_ whose fault it was—the point was that the past was the past and Masamune remembered only too well now the emotions that had clutched at his chest the last time he'd held _Ritsu_ … It'd hurt, burned—but in a good way. In a way that felt warm and right and like he thought love was supposed to feel like when it was real and lasting. Like a brand, more than anything.

So what the hell was Onodera's problem? They'd had a tragic misunderstanding but—they were adults. It wasn't as if they couldn't talk things over, realize they were different people now but not _so_ different that they didn't still matter to one another, right? Deep inside Onodera, he knew there had to be at least a sliver of _his_ Ritsu, the one he'd held and whispered his passions to and fallen in love with—just like deep inside Masamune he knew still lurked the uncertain but unfailingly loyal Saga that Ritsu had confessed his love to.

He'd held onto that bit of himself for ten years—held onto it despite Yokozawa's efforts to completely rid Masamune of all ties to his troubled past.

His stomach churned: Yokozawa. He'd be furious if he knew who'd just transferred into Emerald's editing division. Furious, and he wouldn't be shy about letting Masamune know how he felt about the whole situation—and yet… It kind of made him want to tell the guy all the more.

He wanted _someone_ to tell this to, wanted someone who would understand what a huge deal this was, how different things were going to be now—now that he had a second chance. And if Yokozawa ranted and raged against the very idea of Masamune trying to pursue (and _winning_ ) Onodera again, then it would only serve as a podium for Masamune to reaffirm, aloud, his feelings on the matter, to tell someone, if not Onodera himself, that the past ten years could go fuck themselves. He was going to make damn sure that Ritsu knew how he felt this time.

No regrets this time around.

* * *

_Just don't give up, I'm workin' it out.  
Please don't give in; I won't let you down._

You wish you could write him a letter. You've always been more comfortable with the written word than the spoken, and maybe if you had a pen in your hand or a screen in front of you, you might finally be able to make some sense of all the jumbled up emotions in your head.

You're in love with him. Oda Ritsu.

Unfortunately, you're not sure you'll ever be able to tell him that. It's just not something you do—tell people you love them. Of course, you've never really _loved_ anyone. You think you loved your parents, genuinely, when you were younger, but now it's more like you'd probably be sad if they died, but you'd get over it. You hardly see either of them anyways, and it always just hurts when you do; love isn't supposed to hurt, right? So it must not be love.

But with Ritsu— _fuck_. How'd you wind up falling in _love_ with a _guy_? You've always liked girls with soft curves and warm skin and legs that spread for you just when you wanted them to—but really, Ritsu isn't so different. He's soft (but not so curvy) and warm (especially pressed against you, back to chest), and even though you once winced at the thought of ever doing anything remotely sex-related with another man, it's hardly an unpleasant experience, you quickly realized.

And what's more, Ritsu just seems to want to please you. Not just physically so, but…he wants to do stuff like _talk_. About school, or books, or the weather, or how he sucks at math. He says he'll listen to you complain about your parents, too, and all the other shit that weighs you down—but you can't bring yourself to dump it on him and ruin his image of you.

You used to revel in that idea—shattering all his illusions about you. Seeing his image of you break into a thousand pieces until he realized you were nothing more than a lonely, depressed teenager whose parents were more interested in who would get the bigger share in the divorce settlement than how you were doing in your prep-exams for college. You wanted him to stop worshipping you like some mythical being worthy of being idolized by someone as pure and honest and straightforward as him—but he never did, not even when you broke his heart in the library. God, you were a jerk that day.

Now, though, despite that reassurance that there's quite likely nothing you can do to scare him away, you're _nervous_ that you're going to make one wrong move and send him packing—or worse, he's going to realize what you've known all along, that you're nothing special and really what is there to like about you?

You're pretty average-looking and fairly highly ranked in the class but nothing amazing. You don't have any particular talents to speak of, though you do think you're a quick study; you must've read through every book in the library three times over by now, and you remember which ones sucked and which ones you could've read _ten_ times over.

But what does any of that have to do with love? What part of that description in any way merits the kind of affection Ritsu professes for you? None that you can see.

So you sit here, loving hard and deep from your seat at the reading table, feeling his body heat even from across the table and wondering when it won't be improper for you to suggest going back to your house.

He'd agree no matter when you asked, you're pretty sure, but you do have your pride still. Kind of. You lose a little bit more of it each day around him.

Your father once told you that a man was nothing without his pride. You think instead that you're nothing without Ritsu.

* * *

_It messed me up, need a second to breathe._  
Just keep coming around.  
Hey, whataya want from me? 

He knew Onodera hadn't meant it; Yokozawa had a frustrating ability to bring out the worst sides of people when they argued, and Onodera was only playing into his hand. He knew, logically, deep down, that Onodera had been wavering for a while now in his feelings, and that _hate_ had no place in those feelings. It might not be _love_ , not yet—but surely it wasn't hate either.

Still, it stung. Fiercely. Like a slap to the face— _I hate Takano-san!_

While his mind might have understood that the guy hadn't meant it, the little bits of his heart that had dared to hope he might be getting through to Onodera all the love he'd never been able to voice in his heady years of youth—had shuddered with the resounding clang of rejection.

His chest had seized up, and he'd felt a tightness behind his eyes when a dark part of himself reminded _see? you'll never have him back._ And despite the look of abject horror on Onodera's face when he realized Masamune had overheard him, a sure sign he regretted the outburst, it hadn't stopped the fear and doubt from taking root just a little more strongly.

Here in the dark now, he closed his eyes and tried to listen over the full murmur of the building settling for the sounds of Onodera puttering about in his apartment. The muffled squeak of a faucet being turned, or dull roar of the toilet flushing. The soft hum of the water heater sputtering to life, or the guttering slam of the balcony doorway sliding shut. He wished to hear any of those noises, because all this silence just made Onodera's words echo louder.

He knew, in the morning, it would hurt a little less. The logical part of his brain would shout down the demons that wracked him with doubt and remind Masamune that Onodera had told him— _told him_ he just needed more time, and Ritsu or not, Onodera wasn't the type to outright lie about something he knew damn well was important to Masamune, surely? He'd confessed to that pretty little fiancee that he'd been hung up on _that person_ all these years, and that wouldn't be so if he didn't still love Masamune, right? You wouldn't be hung up on someone you hated, right?

He clenched his eyes shut and rubbed at his temples, shifting onto his back on his bed. Time. There was always too much or too little of it. Ten years of regretting, all thanks to the thoughtless reflex of an instant. Seven months of courting, which in the end had hardly been worth the few moments it felt like they really had that connection again. What felt like all his life waiting…only to likely turn into the rest of his life from here on out as well.

And eight hours alone in his bed here to relive it all.

He sighed loudly. Still—in the morning, things would look better. They always did. They'd looked better the morning after he'd spent half the night crying shamelessly over his "father", had looked better the morning after he'd let himself sleep with Yokozawa and finally appreciate the sensation of being treasured by someone again (it'd felt _too_ good, too comforting though—and he couldn't do that to Yokozawa). And they always looked better whenever he woke up next to Onodera, despite the inevitable tirade sure to follow.

He knew it should hurt—just now—to think of Onodera like that…but it was already fading, and he was already bending his ear to the Masamune on his shoulder reminding him that Ritsu was Ritsu, whether he was Oda or Onodera, and that his love had been good and strong and could surely last ten years if Masamune's own jumbled-up feelings had been able to do the same.

They were the both of them stronger, more stubborn, than words shouted in the heat of the moment—Onodera had proven that years ago. It was up to Masamune to prove it now. His role here was not to retreat, to back off and lick his wounds and bemoan his lot in life, but to dig in his heels and keep fighting for what he knew they both wanted and needed. It was only a matter of time, really—and he had the patience of a saint.


End file.
